


What Remains of the Diaz Family

by that_one_internet_lover



Category: Life Is Strange 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Missing Persons, Missing Scene, Multi, POV Multiple, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-12 18:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17472914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_one_internet_lover/pseuds/that_one_internet_lover
Summary: A month after Sean and Daniel disappear, Lyla returns to their abandoned home in the middle of the night to excavate what’s left of it and discover the secrets and stories hidden inside. Inspired by the game What Remains of Edith Finch (but has no spoilers for it).





	1. The Remains

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this way back in September as a way to deal with the post-game depression of What Remains of Edith Finch, a game about the titular Edith Finch exploring her abandoned childhood home to learn about her deceased family members. I highly recommend it; it's incredibly emotional and moving.  
> Writing this was the only thing I could do while listening to the (incredibly depressing) soundtrack, and then I combined it with Life is Strange 2 as a way to write from Lyla's point of view. I really wanted to get into Lyla's headspace, put in my own headcanons about her childhood, and explore how she must have been feeling in the aftermath of Sean and Daniel running away. Plus, I wanted to write something actually sad after all my plotless fluff, and using second person just made sense to really get into Lyla's point of view.  
> This is a huge departure from my other writing, but I enjoyed writing it. Now that episode 2 is finally out and I can fix details to align with canon, I feel ready to post it.

It’s been a month since they vanished.

Your insomnia keeps you up. Your appetite keeps you fed but the depression battles it constantly. Your anxiety keeps you alert but your constant exhaustion turns it into a fog. You neither know rest nor wakefulness. Voices turn into muted murmurs, like listening to everything while underwater, and you can’t bring yourself to care. 

When you were a child, the streetlights and passing cars’ headlights put on a show for you every night on your bedroom walls. They were completely blank, the perfect stage for the lights to flicker and shine upon, until your eyes drifted closed. The car engines were a lullaby and the bed hummed softly with the floorboards. You slept soundly back then. 

You met Sean in first grade, when you were both six. He brought so much new color and noise into your life: vibrant new foods, phrases of a new language, new music. And soon, the _whoosh_ of your new skateboard wheels coasting with his, humming and clicking on asphalt. And later, vivid streaks of chartreuse, polka dots of mahogany, smooth lines of black ink that burst in his sketchbook, then couldn’t be contained and leapt onto bigger and bigger canvases. Then the colors finally pranced onto your bedroom walls: posters, drawings that he gifted you, concert tickets pinned up with thumbtacks you both saved up for, dozens of photos of you and your friends. Best of all, he brought so much laughter into your life. So much. 

A year after you met Sean, you met newborn baby Daniel, bundled up in a blue striped blanket and held protectively by his brother with a mixture of nervousness and fierce pride. You gazed upon his wrinkly smushed up baby face and his peach fuzzy black hair and giggled. He grasped your index finger in his hand and breathed. In the silent hours of each night since October 28th, you hope, desperately, that he and Sean are still breathing now. 

You developed insomnia when you were thirteen. It started so inconspicuously: your mind racing just a little more, eyes open just a little wider, the moon’s shadows becoming just a little longer. At first it was just an extra hour of sleeplessness, but then you were awake for half the night. The car lights grew less frequent until you were staring at a dark stage, eyes darting about. 

The insomnia is back now, and it’s relentless. It used to be maybe a few times a month, but since they’ve disappeared, it’s every night. Still, you get used to the routine: you float through your day, and then you have an extra twelve hours to occupy as you wish. But usually, it’s spent lying in bed, staring as the headlights on your wall gradually dim. 

Sean was never too active on social media, but you can feel the tension on his profile: your friends and classmates are online, holding their breath as they hover around his sparse pages. What are they waiting for? An update from him, the police, or just for his page to be memorialized or terminated? You don’t know. Nobody knows. 

You thought you could track grief, somehow. As if you could record it, like how you kept track of your medication, which you had to start taking after you were awake for 48 straight hours. You rip out a notebook page each morning and write down every time you think of them: in class, in the lunch line, on the bus in shaky letters, at home. 

_I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. Please be safe._

You thought that you’d be making some sort of progress, the number of “I miss you’s” decreasing. That was how grief worked, right? But you write those same words down until they trail at the bottom of the page and your eyes burn. And it’s never consistent. 

The first week was nothing but guilt. You felt guilty as you combed your hair in the morning, brushed your teeth, made a meager breakfast, rode the school bus, sat at your desk, and took notes through your migraine. You felt guilty every time you looked at all your clean clothes or when you could just reach into the pantry for a snack. But these days, you can barely bring yourself to eat anything. You felt guilty for eating because of how scarce food must be for them. You felt guilty for not eating because of how readily available food was to you. 

The only moment of clarity was when Sean called you from a motel. It was like a flash in the dark-- one moment he was here, just on the other side of the line, his voice in your ear, and then he had hung up on you. The click of the line going dead sounded as deafening as a gunshot. If you didn’t have a good reason to hang onto every word he had said, you certainly did when the police questioned you for hours afterward, demanding to know exactly what he told you. It ended with you mumbling _He just said he missed me. I just want my friend back, _through your tears.__

__After the first week, the map of America on your TV screen lit up red, and all that guilt turned into white-hot fear. Did they know that he won? Were they being pursued or harassed? Were they cold? Hungry? Lost? Scared? Sick? Were they even…_ _

__You couldn’t think of the possibility. In bed, in the dark, you whispered your plea: _Keep them alive._ You didn’t even know who you were talking to; your family had never gone to church, but Esteban had been religious. Maybe some God could hear you, or perhaps Esteban could, wherever he was now. _ _

__As furious as you were— the anger felt like a volcano— at Sean for hanging up, you held onto that call like it was a lifeline. Even as days of silence turned into weeks, you keep replying to the trolls and even the death threats. Someone had to. Most of all, you want answers. But you suppose everyone does; the police have refused to issue an official statement or report, and there’s no real answer yet on what caused all that destruction. You pace your room and grind your teeth as your homework sits untouched on your desk. You’ve asked Jenn three times now if her mom could make an exception and be Sean’s attorney, but she always refused, looking all flighty and nervous. After getting together with Derek Anderson two weeks later, it was like Sean never even existed._ _

__The Diaz house, meanwhile, turned into a crime scene; yellow police tape across the front lawn, chalk lines, cops storming the kitchen with its lively, welcoming presence, inspecting everything. The only thing amiss was that Sean’s backpack was missing, the door left ajar. Your jaw clenched just thinking of how the cops must have burst into Sean’s bedroom, looking at everything: the photos, all his sketches, the birthday cards for him that you poured your heart out into, year after year. It was never theirs to see._ _

__But it’s been a month now. Cop cars don’t surround the house. You don’t hear sirens constantly. Everyone has… moved on. You barely speak anymore, because there’s no one left to talk to._ _

__Everything is now too bright, too colorful, too noisy, too _alive_. You do have a life to return to; your parents are bringing you to your aunt’s house for Thanksgiving, and there’s still homework, tests, and the SATs to worry about. The guidance counselors at school and your therapist are available, almost too eager. But it’s not the same. How do you grieve for someone you’re not sure is alive or dead? How do you stop thinking about someone who could be alive today and dead tomorrow? _ _

__The night Thanksgiving break starts, your backpack mocks you. You departed the bus and walked home-- alone, in silence, like everyday since that day. The backpack was left slumped against your bedroom door, as you collapsed into bed as soon as you entered your bedroom, burrowing yourself into a cocoon of blankets. Now, your phone screams 2 AM at you in its fluorescent silence. You took a melatonin pill an hour ago but sleep won’t come, and now you’re left staring at your damn backpack._ _

__Then you get up. In your closet, the first shirt you blindly pull out is the same one you wore on that last normal day. You hesitate, then shake your head and change into it. It’s too cold tonight for a shirt like this but you’re beyond caring now. Then you change into the jeans you had been wearing that day too and shrug on your backpack. You know by now how to close doors silently and which floorboards to avoid. You pack Tupperware containers and carry a large plastic bin out to the garage. Before you leave, you grab your phone and slip on the yellow Vans you had been wearing that day by the door._ _

__It’s a ten minute walk but it feels like hours. The streetlights offer no comfort and the cold bites right through your shirt into your bones. When you reach the house, the police tape and chalk lines are gone. The house looks so horribly, horribly normal._ _

__But you suppose it had to lead back to the house, in some way or another. Now, anyone could walk right in and trash the place, or rob it. Until they returned, the least you can do is make sure their valuables were kept safe in the bins you brought, even if it meant having to return to where it all began._ _


	2. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 110 hits in 2 days? Thank you all so much.  
> In this chapter, I tried to recreate how I felt while playing Edith Finch. The intense loneliness, fear, and grief that was so haunting. I also included its themes and plot points: Edith receiving a key from her mom in her will, ambiguous situations, switching to different points of view, flashbacks that explore how characters died, unreliable narrators, and discussing death and grief.  
> And as a testament to Dontnod's incredible attention to environmental design and attention to detail, every single description of the Diaz house is based its appearance during the Seattle chapter of the beginning of the game.  
> Warnings: Descriptions of blood, vomit, violence and death.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve been obsessed with everyone’s current location and status in a way that was almost desperate. You hated the idea of isolation, of not knowing where somebody was, and of being forgotten yourself. Even though it’s only been four weeks, the entire house brings that same feeling, threatening to swallow you whole.

This isn’t right. You’re still on a street you’ve known your whole life, not a secluded island. You’ve rang that doorbell hundreds of times. But walking up to the house, your skin grows numb. You have to walk across the lawn where a murder took place, stepping over patches of grass that had been bloodstained. You approach the door Sean ran out of a month ago, before his life was forever uprooted.

In his will, Esteban left a key to a room in the house, and the police gave it to you.

_Why me?_ you asked hoarsely. _Is their mom really that unreachable?_

_You seem to be the closest person to the family, and proximity also plays a factor,_ the policeman replied, speaking so clinically while staring at your reddened, haggard face. You knew exactly why. A pretty little girl like you shouldn’t have even associated with someone like him.

You wanted to wipe away the dark circles from under your eyes and meet the officer’s blank gaze, but when you got up to leave, you were facing the door when you muttered, _For the record, I know Sean better than any of you. He’s not who you think he is._ Before he could respond, you were already storming out of the police station, slamming the door behind you. The key bit into your palm and left grooves.

You carry it with you now, but it doesn’t open the front door or any of the windows. Instead, you fiddle with the latch on one unlocked window and climb inside into the living room.

You always considered the Diaz house a second home. But for the first time, it feels like you’re just in a house. And instead of a family to greet you, there are just memories of one. You feel like you’ve just stepped back in time, to the night of October 28th, and you shiver. The Halloween decorations are still there, a deep blue in this light. The power had long been shut off. You sweep your phone flashlight around the room, the house just as cold as the night outside. Every atom in your body is screaming at you to escape this time capsule and get as far away as you can. But whatever is in here could be the first step towards solving everything, or just getting some peace of mind, somehow. You start with the kitchen.

Life itself had been paused in this house. You pick up an empty Chock-O-Crisp wrapper on the table, hold it up to your nose and breathe in the scent of stale chocolate. You brush the crumbs off the kitchen island, toss the spoiled detox smoothie still left out, put the cereal box back in the pantry, and throw away the old leftovers in the fridge. All this food… Sean must have yearned for it so much. You skim the angry letter from Brett’s dad, then crumple it up. After a moment, you decide that’s not even enough and rip it into tiny shreds instead, letting the paper crumbs embedded with hateful typed words settle on the floor like ashy snow. You know a few people at school had visited Brett in the hospital, but you had refused. All you would have done was spit on him.

You erase the whiteboard with a tissue and write, “Welcome home!” Then you erase that too. And even though you know it’s useless, the thought has drifted into your head, and you’re holding a marker, so you write “I still miss you” on the whiteboard and leave it there.

The sink still has dirty dishes inside, a rotting smell wafting from the basin: a greasy plate, a griddle, a pot and two spatulas. You empty a mug of cold, moldy coffee in the sink. The house was still a house, but it felt like a wax museum. Or a mausoleum. You have to touch every surface to make sure it’s real.

There’s a corn syrup bottle. Your mouth goes dry, remembering how Daniel burst into Sean’s room that day, showing off his bottle of zombie blood before waving at you. It was the last time you saw Daniel. What if it was the last time you’ll ever--

You grab the corn syrup and shove it into a random drawer. The clatter of the door is the loudest sound you’ve made since entering.

A cutting board. A full loaf of bread still sealed in its bag. Rows of condiments and spices. A bowl with rotten, residual egg whites and a whisk that you put into the sink. A pan on the stovetop, still with a wooden spoon resting inside. When were they all last touched, and by who? Daniel, carrying the bread inside after going grocery shopping? Esteban, did he make scrambled eggs for the boys that Friday morning, the last breakfast he would ever…

You press your forehead against the refrigerator and close your eyes, its stainless steel surface cool and smooth against your skin. This was all such a mess. You just wish everyone else could see that the brothers were innocent. It just had to be. Sean was not a murderer. The police didn’t know the six-year-old boy who offered you crayons with a gap-toothed grin the first time you met him. They didn’t know the kid who never went anywhere without his trusty sketchbook, who sang offkey along to The Streets, who still read _Chronicles of the Basilisk_ , who could make his little brother laugh no matter what, and who always looked out for you like he was your older brother too, even though he was ten months younger than you.

You gather the photos: One of Sean leaning against a snowman as tall as he was, Sean and Daniel posed at a photoshoot with stiff smiles, and the photo that was also Sean’s Skype profile picture: the Diaz family in ski gear with rosy noses and cheeks and huge smiles. You lay each one in the container as carefully as you can after holding them tightly. You need to rescue these relics before they die with the house. You feel this desperation, like they have to be held by the living before they lost all connection with the world they inhabited.

You’re not sure when the last time you were in Daniel’s room was, but the first thing you spot is his science project. There’s four Brassica sprouts barely clinging to life on the windowsill, in a tiny styrofoam quad. The power had been shut off but the water hadn’t, so you carry Daniel’s plant to the kitchen sink. The silver moonlight through the window turns your skin baby blue and your fingernails violet. Your fingers curl around a glass in the cupboard. You pick it up. You turn the tap on.

Esteban. He’s there; you can hear him singing. You gasp, the intake of air echoing around the room, and push the faucet down so violently that it springs back when you let go. The kitchen is dead silent. You turn it on again. You swear you can hear Daniel giggling. Water off. Silence. Water on. Sean is humming along to The Streets. Off. On. Sean is laughing, the laugh that you miss so much it hurts. Off. You exhale shakily, your teeth gritted.

A part of you wants to wrench the sink out of the wall with your bare hands and scream until there are no sounds left under your skin, until all the sounds lying dormant in the house flee through the windows. The other part of you wants to leave the water running and listen to the Diaz family sing and laugh until the whole house floods and sinks below the ground, so you can finally get some peace. You back away and leave it off. You keep hearing them whenever you turn the water on so Daniel’s plant is left to die. You whisper that you’re sorry.

Standing in front of Esteban’s bedroom, you realize that this was what the key was for. Had Sean and Daniel ever stepped foot in this room? Surely they must have, when Daniel was frightened during a thunderstorm and asked to sleep in his father’s bed, or when Sean needed to ask a favor while their dad was in his room. Esteban wouldn’t be the kind of parent to turn them away— or keep them out. Still, you feel a chill settle on your neck, like you’re peeking into a corner of the family’s lives that they were never aware of, not even Esteban. You unlock the door, twist the knob, and step inside.

Esteban’s room is fairly plain. There are a few small paintings by Sean and you put them in the largest plastic bin. The curtains are open, letting blue moonlight spill on the carpet. His nightstand is mostly crowded with invoices, but there are some newspaper clippings too. You smile faintly, remembering how much Esteban loved ridiculous, unexplained phenomena and conspiracy theories, so you put away some clippings about Bigfoot sightings and “proof” of the multiverse theory. But then one article catches your eye.

It’s a newspaper article dated October 12th, 2013, about some coastal town in Oregon that had been wiped completely off the map by a storm. You sit on the floor and read: _With no prior signs or warnings, Arcadia Bay, OR was devastated around 18:00 yesterday by an E6 tornado, the first ever in the world to receive this rating. While meteorologists continue to be baffled by such an odd, yet dangerous, storm, police continue their investigations for the missing and identifying bodies._

You were in eighth grade at the time, and had just turned fourteen. That Friday, October 11th, you and Sean had trekked to the skate park right after school, and for the first time it was completely empty. You both whooped and ran around like little kids just at your sheer luck, then skateboarded— fell, swore, got up, and tried again— for the next three hours.

And while all that was happening, thousands of people were dying in that storm. Roofs were ripped off buildings, mangled bodies were slammed against cars and broken glass, and Arcadia Bay was irreversibly destroyed. They were all lost connections now, their memories left to drown at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

You sift through the papers and pick up a page from the Oregon State student newspaper. You’re drawn to one smaller, nondescript article in the corner: “Rachel Amber disappearance solved by two teens, a year after Arcadia Bay ‘superstorm’.” 

You always thought your life was normal enough, but perhaps life contained strangeness in a way you couldn’t comprehend. Or, perhaps the missing were connected to others in invisible, mysterious ways. You would often lose yourself wondering about those severed connections. But right now, you feel like some broken connection you weren’t aware of is now retying itself to you, urging you to remember. Because as you read, your vision of the room blurs and you see something else. 

You look up, and you’re not in Esteban’s room anymore. You’re not _you_ anymore; you walk with a new vigor and swagger, flip your perfect curtain of blond hair, and smile at everyone you see. You can see the junkyard: the sun beating down on rusted car roofs and a little shack filled with treasures. You left a letter for “C” there and didn’t look back at the black-and-white photo strip sitting on the spool-shaped table. 

You’re still her, but it’s later on now. You thrash, twist in _his_ white-hot grip, scream against the duct tape over your mouth. Your vision goes dark and is restored again. You can practically see the camera flashes, feel the sharp sting in your neck, your heart raging with betrayal and rage and regret, someone is leaning over you, and— 

You can’t finish reading this. You look up at Esteban’s darkened bedroom and take a few deep breaths, skimming the article: _Rachel Amber’s body was discovered in the American Rust junkyard in the outskirts of Arcadia Bay, but since her date of death was so many months prior, forensic reports were unable to ascertain if she had died from the initial drug overdose, the physical trauma she suffered by her captors, or by suffocation, if she had still been alive after being buried._

Your vision rocks at that last line. You press your hand over your mouth, hot sticky tears running down your cheeks, but you have to get up and run to the bathroom anyway. Gagging, you fall to your knees before coughing up the little you’ve eaten today into the toilet bowl. Then you flush and collapse onto the cold tile, your throat burning. 

From deep inside your ribcage, there’s the tiniest break. It’s like a string broke inside of you, but that’s enough to make you fold right in half as you finally start sobbing. And you wail out all the grief buried in you over the past four weeks. Grief about the injustice of the world you lived in, how unfair it all was, and that in this moment, right now, there’s no escaping any of it. You’re still crying on a bathroom floor while your best friend is gone, his brother is gone with him, and their father is dead. 

When you’ve finally run out of tears, your face warm and your stomach hollow and rolling in waves, you pull yourself up and rinse your mouth, then pause to study yourself in the mirror, expecting an unrecognizable, wild-eyed monster to stare back. But all you see is your tear-streaked, sunken cheeks from so many skipped meals. The dark circles under your eyes, now puffy and red, from so many sleepless nights. You’re horrified by how familiar it’s become. You look… older. 

How many mirrors had Sean looked into since that day? Could he still recognize himself, or had somebody else— older, beaten-down, exhausted— replaced his image too? 

There’s not as much in the bathroom. Razors, shaving cream, toothbrushes, combs, and a hamper overflowing with dirty laundry. You picture Sean and Daniel hiking along a road, with matted hair and dirt-streaked faces, and the guilt of being able to take a hot shower stabs you right in the heart. You’re no longer the girl who skateboarded on weekends, listened to punk rock, and devoured her mom’s home-cooked Korean food. Now you’re just the girl who was insane enough to pillage her friend’s house like a rat, and who ate and acted like one too. 

Finally, you trudge back to Esteban’s room and put Rachel’s article in your bin, just to preserve her memory. You can’t fathom the idea of her lost in the abyss of severed connections. She felt so _alive,_ larger than life even in death. There had to be someone still alive who truly loved her. The Diaz family deserved to be remembered as much as her, and in the back of your mind, you still believe that these three names are the first clue to solving everything. 

But before you leave, there’s one more room to see. There’s no point in putting it off. 

Your hand lingers on Sean’s doorknob, and then you push it open and step inside. With each sweep of your phone flashlight across the room, you feel weaker. 

It’s the room’s messiness that gets to you the most. Sean’s room isn’t swept up, tucked away, and left to fester with painful memories like it belongs to a deceased person. You can clearly spot his dirty clothes lazily kicked under the bed and schoolwork on his desk. But you’re shaking so badly that you can barely stand because you don’t know for sure if you’re staring at a bedroom or the memorialized remains of one. 

You muster up all your strength and start with his corkboard of photos. You squint at yourself in the photo, flashing a peace sign as you smile, concert lights glowing all around you. Who is this girl? You clear the entire board, tucking everything inside. You put away his copies of _Chronicles of the Basilisk_ and his gaming magazine, then gently lay his track trophies in the largest container along with the family photo at the race. 

All his drawings go into another container. Walking up to his desk, you spot something next to his laptop. It’s still there, on a post-it note: his “masterpiece.” You had smirked and replied, _Well, yeah, it’s my portrait._ But now looking at it, you almost start crying again. You fold it up into a tiny square and tuck it away into your backpack. 

Settling into Sean’s desk chair and looking out the window, you realize that this is where it all began. This is exactly what Sean saw, how he saw it. The articles published afterward didn’t come close to the panic and confusion of that afternoon. You’ve read that article so many times you could recite it: 

_A police officer was found dead next to the body of Esteban Diaz, 45, who was apparently shot by said officer. The only witness, a teenager, was knocked unconscious during the incident and remains in the hospital. The details of the case are not clear while Diaz's two sons, Sean, 16, and Daniel, 9, are now wanted for questioning._

As you gaze at the front yard through the window, your vision shifts. The blue moonlight fades and is replaced with a brilliant golden sunset. It had shone through the open garage door as Sean chatted with you about money for the party just minutes ago, but now it illuminated a much more distressing scene. 

_Oh no…_ you muttered. 

You’re running towards them. You don’t know or care what your boys did, just that the cop needed to get his gun away from them _now._ But a moment later the cold barrel of the pistol glared right at your chest as the policeman ordered, _Get on the ground, sir!_

_Dad! We didn’t do anything! I’m sorry, Dad!_ It was Sean, his usual teenage swagger completely gone. 

This was what you hoped would never happen. Hadn’t you done everything you could? You had worked so hard to come to America to ensure your children would have more opportunities a better life. Hadn’t you done everything right? You settled in a safe neighborhood in Seattle, where they would be treated fairly. You raised your boys to be good kids, kept a low profile these past few months, warned them, tried to keep even Daniel informed about what was really going on with this year’s election. You didn’t have to nudge Sean to read a news article. He wasn’t an idiot. He was growing up so fast, turning into a well-informed, hardworking young man. If there was any moment you wanted him to know how proud you were, it was now. 

I know you didn’t do anything. 

Don’t be sorry; it’s not your fault. 

And yet… he was still that same little boy. Despite his growing height, being old enough to drive, his eyes still held that childlike wonder in them. You could see it when he was drawing, and could only wonder how he saw the world. His eyes looked the same when he was angry, the same indignant glare as when he pouted as a toddler. His eyes looked the same when he was scared. You could see the pure terror burning in them right now, and it pierces you right in the heart. They just needed to stay quiet as you explained yourself. In a few minutes this would all be over and the cop could leave. 

And Daniel— this was all happening too fast for Daniel, you could tell. He was still so young. When Daniel was born and Sean took him into his arms so easily and naturally, it was like he had been destined to be a brother. What cop would ever point his pistol at the children who had once been that baby boy, cradled protectively by that bright-eyed 7-year-old child? 

You looked down at your sons. They were terrified, so terrified, as they lay on the grass. 

You forced a smile. You said, _Daniel, it’s gonna be alright._

_On the ground!_ The cop yelled. 

Sean and Daniel would be alright. They would take care of each other. They just had to. 

The last thing you ever heard was a gunshot. 

* * *

 

You blink, and the cold of Sean’s empty, dark bedroom settles back onto your skin. Teeth gritted, hands pressed over your ears, you still can’t block out the sound of that fatal gunshot from ringing in your skull. Esteban’s death had been so senseless and cruel, and it had snowballed into such a fucking mess. 

Sean had always been obsessed with color. You know he saw the blood first: wet, shiny crimson petals that bloomed on the lawn beneath his father’s body. You know he saw the wreckage, and you know he saw the policeman, too: his legs bent at a sickening angle, his head split open. 

Maybe this was where you needed to be tonight, to truly see it all. Then, you finally realize: you’re bone-deep exhausted, too tired to even walk home. But sleeping in any of the beds or on the couch feels intrusive and wrong. You take another lap around the house, considering the patch of carpet by the TV, or sleeping sitting up in a chair. 

You linger by the basement door, breathing in the smell of cold cement and tile. You used to be terrified of your own basement, but the worst part was always having to shut the light off before climbing back upstairs. You would shut the door, then sprint up the rocky surf of the staircase, before the foamy waves and tendrils of darkness could seize you and drag you back down. But tonight, you wade straight into the black water. You let the cold waves lap around your ankles, then your waist, then your eyes. 

You kneel, pressing your palms on the dusty cement, the same floor the cops stormed looking for evidence, belonging to the same police department that tore this family apart and killed this house. Then you sit cross-legged at the bottom of the ocean. The wolves will be howling tonight. Saltwater floods your lungs. It feels… peaceful. 

Your backpack becomes your pillow as you lie on your back on the basement floor, just in your one pair of jeans and one shirt and shoes and your heavy plastic bins. You lie like a corpse in a grave. Tears run sideways out of your closed eyes and down the sides of your temples. 


	3. The Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I finally included Sean himself in the story, after two chapters of just Lyla's thoughts about him. But this version of Sean is reflected through Lyla's insecurities and declining mental state.  
> Warnings: Descriptions of gun violence, cigarette smoking, and blood.

You dream of him that night. You’re both sitting on his porch, cigarette smoke floating in odorless clouds around your heads. Autumnal sunlight drifts through gold and red tree leaves.

You vaguely wonder how long it’s been since you saw him, but you smile at him like you just saw him that day at school. He looks the same: same short cropped black hair, the same dark brown eyes that always gave away what he was thinking about, that same infuriating smirk of his. But then he starts speaking.

_Some nights… I can’t wait to join my dad. Wherever he is now,_ he sighs. 

_What? You mean he’s already dead? What about Daniel?_ You ask, rubbing out your cigarette. He takes another drag.

 _Thanks for gettin’ me to smoke again,_ he mutters, with a tired smile, completely ignoring your questions. Smoke obscures his eyes for a second and your heart seizes in fear. For a second, he didn’t even look alive.

 _You should stop smoking. It’s not good for your health, and I don’t want you to die,_ you ramble, reciting the same things you would roll your eyes at in health class. _S-see, I put mine out. Sean, stop. Please._

_Why? It’s gonna happen. I couldn’t stop my dad from dying and neither could you._

_So you’re already dead,_ you reply flatly, a cold weight settling in your stomach. _Is that it?_ And Sean just _shrugs,_ and you can hardly believe how nonchalant he is.

 _Why does it matter? I have so little control over all this,_ he says.

_Yes you do! You can take control! _You reply, yelling now, rising to your feet. His gaze pierces you. He’s never looked at you like this. It looks too much like you’re staring at his corpse.__

His voice is low and hostile when he snaps, _I’m done, Lyla. I’m sick of all this. How do you know what I should’ve done?_

 _But I_ know _you,_ you insist, trying to keep from shaking. _You said yourself, I know you better than anyone._

 _You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,_ Sean laughs darkly. _You weren’t there when it happened. You were too late. And now, my brother is depending on me. I need to keep us safe and from starving every day. I have more important things to worry about than some clingy bitch who can’t even manage to sleep through the night. Why would I waste the little money I have on a fucking pay phone? Just to talk to_ you?

You flinch and stumble backward as if he just slapped you.

 _Please,_ you reply, your voice hoarse with tears. _Please don’t do this to me. You know I have your back no matter what, right? I promised you that._

He shakes his head, solemn and stone-faced, cigarette smoke completely clouding his features.

 _No, you really don’t,_ he sighs. It sounds like a death rattle.

He’s right, you tell yourself, because you should have run off after them at the first sign of trouble, not pacing in your warm, comfortable room at home, indulging in hot water and clean clothes and a pantry full of food and a bed that you wasted hours lying in because you could never sleep in it anyway.

But you can’t answer him because suddenly you’re not alone anymore. The cop who died is back and he wrenches Sean away from you, dragging him by the arm as Sean simply bows his head in silent defeat, as you scream and lunge for him. But then the cop throws Sean on the ground. There’s a sickening crunch as he thuds face-first onto the splintered wooden deck. Sean can only manage a strangled breath of agony before petals of blood— wet, shiny, crimson— unfurl on the deck beneath his split-open head. His facial features melt like candle wax.

 _On the ground! Hands behind your head!_ The cop orders.

You cannot stop screaming, even though there’s the most beautiful rose garden blooming underneath Sean’s body...

And then the cop lifts his gun and shoots you point blank in the face. 

* * *

 

In the morning, weak white sunlight filters through the rectangular windows and your whole body aches like a decaying tooth from lying on the cement for hours. Your breath forms a white cloud above your head and you can’t feel your fingers or toes. It’s Thanksgiving Day.

Nightmares used to be a relief to wake up from. Now, you’re just going from one nightmare to another.

You check the time: barely 7 AM. No texts, which means nobody missed you being gone. You get up, wincing at the soreness in your shoulders, and gather all your supplies. Your eyes are dry but they hurt and feel swollen, and your head is pounding.

You’ve finally gotten a few consecutive hours of sleep for the first time in weeks, but now you feel like curling up on the cement floor and sleeping the day away. Or the entire long weekend. Or until you hear Sean calling your name, telling you to wake up, kneeling on the floor with his arms open for a hug. And Daniel would be next to him, trying not to laugh at how weird you looked, and behind them both, Esteban would be there too, smiling gently.

But you are here, and they are not. Esteban is dead and the brothers are somewhere, but they are not here, and you cannot stay here.

Minutes later, you slip out the same window you entered the house in. They’ll be back, you tell yourself. And then you can return all these items that you kept safe. Or send it to their new location. Not even the early morning joggers glance in your direction as you walk away from the house, carrying your giant plastic containers and shaking from the cold and nerves.

That’s when you realize: nobody knows you were ever here at all. Nobody will ever know, and nobody will care that you bothered to come back after they had disappeared.

Your parents kept telling you to let the brothers go. They weren’t coming back. They shouldn’t come back. Sean and Daniel are out there, maybe freezing to death, while conspiracy theories, threats, and accusations kept pouring in by the day. Some days— most days, really— it felt like you were the only one in the world who was still trying, who still truly cared. And you couldn’t keep fighting back forever. Barely anyone cared about them.

But in the end, who would be left to care about you?

And at that moment, you resign yourself to the fact that you will become one of the forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
